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Donna Aug 2018
I woke this morning
and looked at my ring and I
smiled all of my smiles :)))))

The sun is shining
Bumbles bees like big full stops
Buzzing in the air

But these wasps are a
pest they want to attack me
So I got a bat

But I haven't used
it as yet,  I think they know
I'm ready to bite

Some of the chalets
have England flags upon roofs
Some have twinkled lights

Me and dean have had
such a relaxing time , we've
ate slepted watched tv

We've danced drank and hugged
lots of family , his dad
stayed with us until

Monday , then he flew
back to sunny Spain with a
cherished memory

We took time out to
recharge our batteries as
life just gets better

We bought new blinds to
make our Chalet feel homely
and a table cloth

It's beige with white spots
O it's so pretty I love
it..dinners look lush

We took our dogs for
a beach walk , the oceans is
windy gently soft

Trees so pretty , I
saw Jennifer the fairy
riding a wagtail

They were running so
fast on a field the daisies
giggled in the breeze

My daughter came down
last night to spend time with us
Tomorrow we shall

go for lunch next to
summer trees and a blue lake
filled with ducks and swans

But best of all I
get to make more memories
I feel like a bird

flying high in sky
as my heart and mind bind
as one big love heart :-)))))
I'm loving being down Chalet with dean we had a such a wonderful relaxin time except the wasps and there loads of them I think august is the main. Season for wasps  xxxx
Inspired :)
Liz Apr 2014
Honeyed icing-sugar
sun melts the snow caps
on the mountains
hair and grates the tough
green, soft

In Caramel pastures,
In sunken hills,
Under the seaweed,
Cowslips grow,
With rubied spotted
Ladies crawling up blades,
And the bumbles rumbled
buzz, a continuous growl,
Sways the floating gold.

The dark spider darts
Spearing crumpled
Flies in its silken steel
Thread. Thread which sparkles
amid the Bronze knives 
which spear it too.
Anthony Caceres Nov 2014
I sit here on the Edge of Reality
Lonely, searching the Galaxy
People think I am losing my Sanity
Or my Mentality is something to not be entered

Everything seems bleak and hopeless
and my body is trying to pull my soul from lifelessness
When the world heals; my scars shall not
The world  covered in disdain and “grace”…
The saint like people are ignored by the famous
Cookie cutter everywhere, Originality is nowhere
Where everyone is money hungry
Where everyone is *** hungry
Where everyone is hungry
Two are fueled while the other is left in the dust
I’m not trying to make a fuss maybe some just

Trying to allow people to think, with their own mind
to see what they can find
to open their heart and be kind
With limited time
We are at a bind
How Can we see when we’re blind
So Tell me what you know about dreams
Tell me what you know about feeling something can’t even touch
Tell me what you know about reality something you can’t see
While the bumbles bees bee and the tree throws apples
When the Govern govern and then Reality is ****** into pan
And When people act like you’re Stan
When addiction isn’t a fan and you're
Trying to stop the Cars
But you’re being held back by bars
as the Cars fall off the Edge of Reality
you realize all the duality but its too late
Your head is being ripped off...fatality

Now when the World's Ablaze and you feel Sub-zero
Courage is their doing charades trying to show you their is more
So get up and grab the stars and nothing is stopping you
As more people get up and grab the stars left by you
So Don’t be the bad guy thats make fun of people that die
Be the person who can show the message of truth
Be your own person
The person who is not manipulated by things like the fox
as the Donkey and Elephant duke it out
for the final bout, The person who thinks of something higher than reality
With the People who sit there on the Edge Of Reality

+-
Wrote this in writers workshop a few years back and pretty proud of it. I figured hey might as well be my first poem up on here. So anyway here you guys go.
Matthew Rowe Aug 2010
The Elephant of Everyday comes stomping through my door
roaring and tromping and crashing about
blowing his trumpety horn

the prowling Panther of Performance
from the closet slides into the room
and circles my bed, growling, as he passes my head
hideous goals he lets loose

the Snake of Selfishness and Self-Centered Living
slithers from under my bed
he slides up the frame and under my sheets
as he curls up and warms my feets

the Black Lion of Pride struts into the room
strong and boasting and loud
living with no help, providing, perfect
telling me how I'm not him

the Otter of Overwhelming Panic
slaps into my room, jabbering and fretting about
running into my desk and my chair and my walls
worrying and biting his ever shortening nails
trying to find his way out

the Shadow Lady strides into my room
eye contact trying to make
the envelope pushes, seduction gushes
objectification she offers me to take

first I try to kick and pry
the snake off of my legs
but he tighter clings and up my torso climbs
his scales piercing my sides

with a snake on my neck
I sit on my bed, my feet touching the ground
and kick and shout at the panther as he
around me continues to prowl

he slashes and bites at my feet and legs
cutting and gouging my flesh
the panther still fighting, I manage to rise
and focus on the Black Lion of Pride

he sees me coming a mile away
and talks me to my knees
I yell and scream 'till I am hoarse
and shake as I weep bitterly

as I kneel, below me runs
the otter, stammering anxiously
I chuckle with malice as he bumbles away
misery loves company

quickly I jump up, out of the way
of the Elephant of Everyday
I kick his foot as he continues to thrash
he does not notice, or even sway

I turn around and face to face
the Shadow Lady's eyes
back me into a corner as I
fail to look away, but feebly try

so on my knees I whimper and cry
as the Gorilla of Guilt comes in
his padded feet near, his thick body looms
as he raises his huge tight fist, to close the tomb

I deserve this I've fallen
I'm no use at all
I can't uphold myself
on whom can I call?

I'm ****** and broken
inside and out
I fight and lose
then I cry and shout

"Stag of Solace, come near to me
I fail at fighting, this is my plea
thrash these menaces, clean my heart
I want to feel near you, never to part"

immediately, a rumbling sound
came from the hall, increasingly loud
they looked at each other, anxiously
then watched the door, slowly backing away

the Stag of Solace smashed through the door
splintering, crushing, a wood shrapnel shower
through the door and into the roaring
Black Lion as, through the window he's rammed,
slashing and crying

strong, poised, graceful he stood
his sharp eyes narrowed, eyeing this zoo
slowly the animals backed away
into the darkness, for now, to stay

his fur was short and sleek and brown
he wore compassion, ivory peace his crown
he came to me, I could not look
he lifted my eyes, bade me come
his shadow, protection, I took

To me he whispered:
my child you strive, you fight on your own
you think you can do this, you can not alone
your sin will never separate you from me
I save you, I purify, I set you free

he nuzzled my forehead
my wounds went away
he spoke once again
this time to me and the fray

the day is coming when I will return
to get rid of the zoo, it will surely burn
for you no more wounds or tears or fear
those things that burden you, never again, will be near

look and wait, for when I come
I come to save and restore
it will be done

until then you will have
trouble when you run
but take heart, for I am near
I hear you, I answer, I have overcome

he nuzzled again and strolled to the door
turned and looked, and let loose a fierce roar
charging away, he powerfully ran
his echo in my head, "I will help you be a man"

and slowly I got up and began to dress
thinking upon the Stag and me
his sin filled, ugly, made beautiful mess

I will still, to my dismay
entertain this masquerading zoo
but the Stag is in and with me
all things he makes new

and I fight and lose and strive to this day
but because the Stag of Solace helps me
I shall never, not ever, be put to shame
1 Corinthians 1:30
Psalm 91:1
Psalm 130
Isaiah 50:7
Hebrews 9:27,28
Galatians 2:20
2 Corinthians 5:17
John 16:33
Isaiah 30:19
2 Peter 3:10-13
Liz Apr 2014
Vivid forget me nots feign sleep,
their tired eyes tinged pink.
The soap and chlorine
at Lyme Regis bay
doth stand to make me think

About the way the rushes grow
and what lurks amount the reeds,
what gently dazzles
behind closed doors
and what we doth concede.

Is the laurel leaf unfathomable?
Is nature that way too?
For I feel that I don't understand
what every body seems to.

The humbled bumbles rumbled buzz
Satin saints upon our door
We wonder what was here,  
And what was there before.

The streaming stained glass
waterfalls, were they always there?
The sickled moon stands amorous,
clotted clouds about his hair.

Stately sit the beaded stars
in a wash of sky,

And still I sit, Still I sit,
Sit and wonder why.
Kurtis Cullen Feb 2014
Prairie winds howling from the south, the entire southern plane a gaping maw issuing forth wide frozen tides in the air scorching the land. peering thru the open blotches of the windshield on the way home, headlights revealing the rolling billows of misty scintillating snow devouring the gravel road way, old raised green truck roars thru the drifts. Earlier, twilight. Freezing. Everything the wind touches, everything that blocks its path becomes still and solid and severely dense. Had a bubble bath before i went out. AB =Long Johns 7 mo's. outta the year. Cheeks barely exposed to the elements, cells begin to deteriorate instantly, the strong stolid ache appears seconds afterward, and spreads in my blood quickly, and doesn't stop till some minutes after i seek refuge in the truck. Taking an elk. old bull. my step dad bumbles the first shot and the beast runs down the *****. He shoots it again. Cuts the throat and eventually takes off the head. Draining Blood is steaming. Leave the entrails in the snowscaped pasture land. Chain the legs to the bale mover on the back of the truck and make for the shop a few miles away. There Fire rages in an old steel drum in the corner, burning wood blocks and black petroleum wax leftover from the pigs that blast out from the pipelines. Feeney's in my coffee mug. The heat radiates just enough to reach us in middle room but we still wear full coveralls against to stifle the endless cold. We hang the carcass by running a steel rod through its achilles tendons. Grandpa & Stepdad refer to a murdered family in Consort whose place was burned down, suspect the son was involved in a drug deal gone bad. (Cohen bros. come to mind. Real life in Alberta & BC seems a blend of Big Lebowski and No Country). Skinning the elk. Carving it up. Learning the different cuts of meat, where t-bones come from, tenderloin, round steak, sirloin. Cool. Mass more than a 100 lbs of meat for jerky making. Country cousins comin over the next few days to help with cutting it all up. Striking a balance between fine articulation and the art of laughing. Turns out Everyone respects poetry for the audience. Good god y'all.
Written during Xmas break
Anthony McKee Sep 2012
He got on, I think, at the first stop
I hardly noticed him at first.
Another passenger, another journey
Another person trying to get on further in the world
But something caught my eye. Was it his looks?
Perhaps, he was handsome, yes
But the type of handsome in an antique
That must be handled and cared for in sterile fashion.

"Tickets please,"  belches the scratchy tannoy of the carriage
As a red faced man in a deep hue of navy bumbles along the aisle.
He presents him any papers on his person
And looks at me with a stupid grin
His old eyes of the deep trenches at sea, glisten
There’s still life in the old boy yet.
Impatience wins this round. His hands still fumble helplessly
Through the sheets; not frailed though, just tired.

Time passes, he daren't say a word
And looks outside, without a sound. Time doesn't worry him
It's treated him well. Or has it?
As he paws his ginger mane
The grey strands shine in the light
A paper sits unread, unloved beside him
Lights of distant towns blur past
As he stares, unflinching, into the distance.

Grunting and shrieking of rails let us know we're stopping
The muddy blue pools shimmer as he rises.
The blade from Cherryvalley assures us that yes,
Yes. This is Lisburn alright. Getting up, sniffing the air
Where nature is a predator, he heaves his dark blue tote bag
Over his shoulder with a grunt.
Roaming into the darkness of the late winter night
Climbing. Climbing. Gone.

I sometimes look into the windows of the 1802
at the lights; look at my reflection
Where is he now? Is he like a stray
a lone nocturnal animal, finding his way
Or did he give up? Did he finally reach his den?
And what will become of me? Time tells, I suppose
It always does. I ruffle my auburn hair
Oily, not greying. Scruff, not mane. Still tamed.
Don Bouchard Jan 2016
The Author,
Having said
What is to Say,
Submits the Text
And Steps Away...

What's to be Read
Or Heard
Or Seen
Is Said and Done.

Then Comes the Fun.

The Reader
Ambles In shuffling,
Struggles In fighting,
Bumbles In stumbling,
Forges In determining,
Skates In gliding,
Rides In on a horse named Fluency.


The Reader wears the Text:
Tries it on for size,
Shrugs before Self's Mirror,
Stretches,
Shrinks,
Dyes,
Preens,
Thinks s/he sees the Whole,
But cannot even see the back
For lack of some connection,
Then ambles off to share
The Text with others.

Later, at the Readers' Circle,
Each wearer of the Text,
Each Poem Creator/Holder
Whose individual Poems differ
After putting on the Text,
Compare.
And though they twirl and dance,
Though they stretch and pose,
Though they must adjust,
No one wears the Text
The Same.
Reader Response Theory, anyone?
Q D Malcolm May 2016
Red river run
Sand bar island
Green mossy tree
Hang over me

Blue sky clear
Sweet rot breeze
Peeper frog chorus
Lying in the forest

Soft lichen touch
Purple petal peak
Fuzzy bee bumbles
Distant bridge rumbles

Bloop and blip
Sounds abound
Chirps and yips
And coffee sips

It's nice to be alone
To hear the sounds
See the sights
Avoid the fights

Muskrat Hollow
Coyote Creek
Hanging Tree
The place to be.
jeffrey robin Jul 2010
and then the thousand years.........
........
we may speak of the GREAT ONENESS
but

it is a beaten and broken and alien place

seeking a love that is not here

speaking of a faith in something that
we do not, cannot, understand

for a GREAT BETRAYAL
darkens the light

which exists now only in eachother

for a GREAT BETRAYAL
clouds all sight

except for the love we feel
for eachother

we may find a form of happiness
we may dance and sing in the moonlight
but only for a little while

for a GREAT BETRAYAL
stalks all life

and , of course,
the unborn child

and we all are ONE WITH
THE UNBORN CHILD

if we are a human being

the ragged urchin angel
child

in the streets of poetry

he stumbles and bumbles and
tries to serve life

hoping you will join him there.
He falls out of his tardis
just like he usually does
he stumbles and bumbles
freaks out and crumbles

Time can mess you up
totally ***** you up
it can wind you up
to your spring does break

Matter and time
rhythm or rhyme
teller of yesterdays
speaker for tomorrows

He's a loveable chap
and rather amicable
but his history is dark
and a child of wars


By Christos Andreasa Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Edward Coles Mar 2014
I never knew my father, but I see him pass in every window reflection. Collar turned to the wind, he bumbles towards the book store with a coffee shop upstairs. I'm entombed in literature and fellow hermits. We become non-existence for all moments but this; as we hunch over scalding cappuccinos, eyes darting to each other semi-covertly, for once hopeful of human contact.

I never knew my father. He died of lung cancer before memories bloomed, in the space between the womb and indoctrination. All traces of him are left in trinkets, soap-preserved hair fibres in a shaving mug, and ripples of gravitational waves. He tells me that I have a place, without ever saying a word. And, he never tells me off for smoking.

I never knew my father. He was a military man and belonged to the Salvation Army. I don't think we'd see eye-to-eye now, but perhaps he would have saved me from my artist's starvation; with my bleeding heart pouring pointlessly into each and every gutter. I would have walked with more of a stride than a fluster, and call out names to the streets, without ever caring for consequence.

I never knew my father, but I met him once. I met him in the caverns of mind, as I swung around with a flashlight; hoping to find meaning in meditation. He held my shoulders as I fell to sobs, as I told him I missed him, as I told him I was lost. To that he just smiled and said:

“You're already there.”
c
PK Wakefield May 2015
sleep this most and Spring to lie
with tired tress and awkward thigh
apart that bit where winter slept
but now where stock and petals kept

a garden small and fragile sleeps
a'tween the hull and meadows deep
tha' bumbles bri' wi' nettled buzz
an' blooms with light an' shocks o' fuzz

a little rill there constant speaks
of need to want for constant peaks
(as like the bee that tends to pistil
the water feels to drink of thistle)

and feel the full when sharply stuck
by root and stem of urgent pluck
Olivia Kent May 2014
The garden flourishes,
Fed with sunny smiles,
The flora watered only,
by the kiss of butterfly ,
The grass whines on relentlessly,moaning only, when beaten by the shears,
The strimmer strums and bumbles buzz,
For,underneath the ballustrade,
Especially positioned,
lay at peace.
The bones of mortals.
Fertilizing, the peaceful garden, hiding inside the cemetery.
Complete with pearly gates.
Blooming beautiful.
(c) Livvi
Bree Jun 2015
“I appoint you an official member
Of the greatest group (not club, mind you,
For we are better than all that nonsense),”
He said with a proud sniffle, “My good sir,
You are now a Busy Bee of BV.”
He leaned in close to the wide-eyed new boy.
“That’s short for Bumbles Ville – our secret fort.”
He straightened his ratted baseball cap, “See,”
He said with a smack of gum. “It’s not ‘bout
Bees ‘t all.” At this the new boy giggled.
A secret! How clever! “But what’s it ‘bout?”
The little boy asked, his voice squeaking out.
They grabbed a paper scroll marked “OFFICIAL!”
                We keep all secrets
                We may take small bets—
“There’s more notes on that at the bottom of
The page, see, right next to our initials,
‘Cause we couldn’t agree at first, and Jim
Here didn’t know what a bet was, you know.”
He didn’t know, but nodded. Then, “Dinner,”
He said at once, scamp’ring down the tree limb.
“We didn’t tell him what we’s ‘bout,” Jim moaned,
“Took his dog, too.” He glumly bowed his head.
Aa Harvey Jul 2019
From the beeginning


A heart beats…
A heart beats again…
A heart beats…and then another.
A heart beats…
And then another
And then another
And then another,
Until the rhythm of the hearts sounds like thunder!
Welcome to life inside the cocoon…


Eyes open.  Eyes close.
Eyes open again…a blink as a brain begins to think…
Something is happening…a heart beats, in tune.


A claw drags itself along a wall and the thread begins to break.
Another claw drags along the same wall, searching for a way to escape.
A hole is pierced in a silk weaved shell.
The air blows in as the senses dwell,
Upon this feeling; inhaling, exhaling…breathing.


A heart beats…a claw is seen waving,
Through a tear in the sealed, protective pod.
The hole grows from fingers and toes, moving faster now.
Somebody is home…the outside noise it calls…a sound so odd.
The casing rolls and legs kick the air…this creature has a soul.
A fist bursts through the surface of the shelter, forming another hole.
A hand reaches out from inside to take a hold.
Another fist; another hand, a larvae is emerging
And soon the outer seal that binds,
All the trapped thoughts of a hive mind,
Are broken free and born with a lasting memory.
Knowledge gained through ancestral experiences;
The creature is still learning…
The cage is broken but never the bond.
The Queen Bee watches all her children,
As they emerge from their growing beds
And she sits there listening to ‘The Greeting Bees’ sing their songs.


The egg rolls once more onto its side.
The embryo is now no longer trapped inside.
It pushes open the wall to create a door to the world…
There appears a furry ball with a spike on its tail.
The story of creation is that nature prevails.


As the furry ball elongates to take its true shape,
A head appears from beneath a body.  The creature is now awake.
As open eyes look for the future, straight ahead,
The story repeats, again and again and again.


Another broken outer layer;
Everywhere the open eyes look, another bee is soon becoming.
Some bees have broken out at the first chance,
Others developed later, but they are all quietly humming.


And at the end, when all the embryos were released,
The remained but a single sleeping bee…


The impatience grew, but still they were made to wait…
A heart was beating, the bee was moving,
But still it did not try to escape…
Some other new bees began to crawl away.
Older bees had gathered to see and they were left truly amazed.
The time had come, the hatchling’s were born,
The hard work was done…
For all, except one.


So still the elders waited…


The bees that were free soon found the honey
And with time they gained their strength and ate.
As the sunlight turned into moonlight,
There remained a solitary bee who did things his own way.
He had decided to remain, saved in storage;
He was still building his courage.
All the courage he could ever need…
All that he could ever bee…


When all the other onlookers had given up waiting,
The Queen Bee sat and watched patiently…
And then at last a head pushed through the case.
It saw a face.
The Queen Bee was waving elegantly.


As the bee rolled out of its bed,
It lowered its head to The Queen Bee of the Bumbles.
She looked into his eyes and said…

“I think I will name you Humble…”


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
This is a story about a bee named Humble B. Bumble.
Mike Adam Apr 2018
Leaf pushes,
Bursts
Through
Fingertip-

Sun
Bending close
Whispers
Spring

As bee bumbles
Into shell-like
Ear,
Petalled.

Rooted to the
Spot
Awe-sruck

Once again
The fearful
Tremulous
Hum
TexasRambler Aug 2017
Fear and doubt flow directly through my veins freezing me into a chunk of solid ice,

Uncertainty forcefully drives a spike straight through my soft and thudding heart.

I want to speak but my tongue is sliced into pieces and fed right back down my throat.



The weight of isolation crushes my spirt flat against an endless sea of old concrete,

and true love and loyalty for my family and friends feels truly impossible to ever express.

Crude communication bumbles and kind fumbling gestures only push me away yet farther,

into a place distant as distant as my derelict father was to his motherless crying child.



Trickling thoughts whispers about the old familiar danger lurking within a lovely woman.

Repeated memories of abandonment burns fast as gunpowder inside my darkest hours,

and five stained cases became forever stuck in the lonesome cylinder left out in the rain to rust and was permanently welded shut.
Jordan N Dingle Oct 2017
I feel the shutter of my curtains,
Stare into the Madness,
Where curiosity and dissidence
lay side by side.

My bed quivers in the early mornings
Light,
Pausing only to Juxtapose the desolation of
my
Sanity.

The floorboards beneath my very feet
Tremble as my consciousness
lay siege to the rational.
As if a sadist has purged the inner
mechanisms
of my Rage.

The stars stand still,
perhaps a welcoming message to my
overwhelming question.
Do we wander the world transfixed on doom,
or see that goodness and glory penetrates the
deepest of trenches?

The ceiling fan bumbles it's absurd existence
into my frontal lobe,
its tense relationship with the air,
Massacring it's way along the roots
of my
liberty.
Perplexing the cause for which I
have lost my thoughts to,
And cultivating the seeds
of
my
MADNESS.
Michael Marchese Jul 2017
Shapes and perspectives
Form over the room
They dance all around
From an angle of gloom
Unobscured by the blinds
And the puppet stage screens
The art journeys across me
In skeleton scenes
And the messages written
Encoded in time
Are the buzzing brain bumbles
To my hornet mind
Aa Harvey Jul 2019
Bee Plus


Sure it’s nice to learn, but I could never sit still…
(Humble!  Sit up properly in your chair and stop moving about!)
I had my head in the clouds; never my mind on the quill…
(Humble!  Are your listening!?  What was I talking about!?)


The teachers liked to talk and I would nod my head,
But I was only there in bee form;
My head was elsewhere, so I would forget,
Everything they taught.
Humble wants to go outside!
Not bee stuck indoors.


There she goes again,
Talking about subtraction and multiplication, or something.
The truth is I never listened.
She could bee saying something really interesting,
But the sun outside, it glistens!


The sun calls to me and says come out and play!
So when the lesson is over, I am the first bee away
And out of the door,
Like a flash of lightning through the corridors.
I know I’ll have to come back after lunch,
But right now!  In this moment!
I can fly once more!


Somehow I know the answers to the questions they set,
But all the knowledge in my head, when they ask me, I forget.
If it ain’t right now, then it will never bee needed;
So can’t we, just for today, just leave it bee?


They keep on talking about the future of the bees;
But dude, I just want to have fun, so give me some peace.
Yeah, I did the homework and I didn’t even get paid.
I read page, after page, after page, after page
And at the end of the day…
This ain’t that great.


“Well maybe you should get up and teach the class!”
So I did; I got it right and I even made them all laugh.
Then the teacher gets annoyed and tells me to “Go outside!
With the other boys and wait for detention!”
I guess she needs to bee the centre of attention.


Aww Man!  Why you taking all my toys?
It’s just a bit of fun.
I can’t help being a joker
And then you give me even more detention!
For saying,
“Aww Man, you a beekeeper-smoker!”


I can’t wait to grow up and leave this place.
Sure, I’ll go and sit outside again,
With all the cool pupa’s in the breakfast club group.
That’s ok; we’re all mates
And we’re quite aware of what we’re going through.


So there we all are, just having a laugh,
Until we hear somebody shout “Oi! Get your bumbles back into class!”
We reply, we can’t; we’ve been thrown out again.
Then they tell us “Well, just sit there and bee quiet then!“
Aww Man!
Can’t I even catch a break?
Everybody needs to just, chill out…
At least now it’s nearing the end of the day.


Eventually, the teacher calls us back in
And then she surprises us all with a pop quiz!
Aww Man!  We don’t know the answers;
Why you always picking on us?
And of course, you know the result…

I was third in the class;
I got a humble bee plus.


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Michael Marchese Jun 2017
I'm back in the world
Where nothing makes sense
Except this existence
In past/future tense
In utopian Andes
I see ancient temples
The Inka my children
Move mountains to meet you
Build cities to greet you
Like Yavin 4 Rivendell
Fairy tales come true
For Shangri La lenses
Through which I have seen through
Become the cascading
And fuego throat truth spew
Of my stoic peaks
Where too much green to see blue
Is wild and thriving
In time is the essence
The stench of surviving
The sweet effervescence
My love evanescent
All relative bliss
In a world luminescent
A powerful cleansing
Of flowerful jungles
And showers replenishing
Buzzing bee bumbles
Who ride like the winds
As they uplift my wings
In a chorus of eagles
To harpyist strings
Yes indeed we're a breed
That is rare and in need
Of a high elevation
To teach and to lead
To share and to spread
Every bountiful seed
We are young and incredibly gifted and freed
By the journeys we take
To mortality's edge
Then we leap from the faith
Of a bungee jump ledge
For these trips into falls
Are immortal in dreams
So sublime and surreal
In our consciousness streams
As we turn up the offspring
The life here it teems
And we are the Mother Earth's
Ends to the means
The rust in the gears
Of deforest machines
Who dare cut us down
From the summits we've reached
When transcending the limits
Of Heavens we've breached
Bob B Oct 2017
During Trump's campaign we saw
How very low the man could stoop
When it came to insulting any
Individual person or group.

The Gold Star family Khan, for example,
Received a heap of Trumpian abuse
As Trump blasted the family with
Insults, childish but profuse.

But even when Trump makes an attempt
To say the right thing, he still bumbles.
His team can pass him the ball, but then
The clueless president still fumbles.

He can have General Kelly
Speak in his defense, but then
On the next opportunity,
He'll stick his foot in his mouth again.

From someone in Trump's position we
Expect much more finesse, but alas!
In the meantime all we can do
Is say to ourselves, "This, too, will pass."

(10-20-17) By Bob B
Jayne E Jun 2019
A friend once dear
told me what I now hold near
the one thing of which we can be sure
is the breath we breathe in out no more

I've thought on this many times
even when struggling with rhymes
to breathe for sure is to survive
but to live really live how to thrive?

lost in the dark the cold dark hell
for years I stumbled, I tripped, I fell
over past atrocities rained on as child
struggled with the hurting of one so mild

Years have passed not sure I'd claim wise
but, from the jaws of hell myself I prised
to search to find my bright sunnier day
again a few stumbles, bumbles on the way

Until finally the sun rose fierce and so warm
as around my heart honey-bees did swarm
as I look back now, the pain still very real
now joy too plays a part so happiness I feel

we can move past those pains carved deep
the injustices rained not needed to keep
imprisoned or freed the choice is mine
so keep breathing in out one breath a time

J.C. honey-tiger 03/06/2019.
Wk kortas Sep 2017
I recollect the whole thing as clearly as if I had awoke with the sun,
Dispensing with any alarm, fully awake and engaged.
I am on a gurney being wheeled slowly down a hospital hallway
(For it is clear to that workaday hustle and bustle
Is no longer of concern to me)
Which is all silence,
Save for the squeak and bump of my carriage’s wheels
As it crosses from tile to tile,
And the sheet which covers me is seemingly made of gauze,
For I can, as I pass by one to the next,
See clearly inside each of the rooms,
The tableaus being what you might expect in such a place:
A young man and small child
Fluttering about a mother and her newborn,
A middle-aged woman reading aloud
(But softly, almost mechanically)
To an ancient and clearly unheeding man,
Another woman, aged and frail to the point of being insubstantial,
Dabbing at her eyes with a frayed, damp tissue,
Exiting a room as an orderly closes the blinds.
At this point the scenes become incongruous, almost surreal,
As if another director has suddenly assumed control of the film;
There is a room where a Marlowe-esque priest,
All harlequin-outfitted and codpiece-clad,
Bumbles drunkenly about the room,
Banging his censer against the walls as he speaks in tongues.
But just as suddenly the settings become gentle, pastoral:
In one room there are no walls at all,
Only a quiet valley with dirt roads and small streams
And the sound, disembodied but palpable and oddly familiar,
Of bells tolling faintly and melodiously in the distance,
While in the next there is nothing save
A young woman with angels bending over her.
At this point, I have clearly reached my final destination,
And I expect to find a chilly and spartan space,
Harshly lit and sparsely furnished with metallic chairs and tables,
So I am caught unawares for what awaits through the doors:
Light, just light making everything below it a toy world.
The dream abruptly ends, as they are wont to do,
But it seems I found it oddly comforting,
And it is that which makes me so apprehensive.
I originally wrote this piece a few years ago in response to a writing prompt, which required one to include two lines from another poem in the body.  The lines beginning "A young woman..." and "Light, just light..." are taken from "Dippold The Optician" from Edgar Lee Masters Spoon River Anthology, which is possibly the finest poem from possibly the finest collection of poetry what was ever written.
Damien Ko Jun 2019
my jumbled bumbles stumble forwards
I fumble, crumble, mumble at a loss for words
help me, I can't even utter two words
you are the culmination I want to walk towards

twice - nice, thrice, and then four - more more more
life is a dice roll, adore, adore, adore

I am the clumsy inept writer
Stringing iamb into iamb hoping to find out what I am
monitor glow and a news feed to keep me out of focus
poor routines and bad basics to make me nervous

So I fumble, stumble, and crumble. Stop.
I mumble and bumble in jumbles. Steady.
Pick it up: one word, two words, three, then forwards
The Fire Burns Aug 2017
Red apples hang next to green leaves,
black ants; slowly crawl in a continuous line,
yellow and brown bumbles hum around,
goats, Meh-eh-eh! Meh-eh-eh! in the pen.

Dewdrop jewels hang from leaf tips,
falling occasionally in the light breeze,
stainless steel glimmers in the sun,
as the blade bites into the apple's flesh.

Juice runs down lips and chin,
a sweet liquid flow perfuming her neck,
and continuing down between pert *******,
resulting in a quivering motion as it tickles.

Sticky sweet kisses, like apple cider,
walking, as hands and fingers knot together,
golden tansies stand alongside the orchard,
I pluck one and put it behind her ear.

Grass, mown short under bare feet,
a path toward the house, birdbath in front,
bluebirds preen, blue and rose beige feathers,
calling out a trilling chirp, background music.

A pair of front porch rocking chairs,
white wood, with brown wicker seats,
anticipate us, as the sun begins to set,
and crickets begin to sing the evening's song.
wraiths Mar 3
I grip the steering wheel as my car bumbles
down the twisted road, high beams dancing
off the grey trees.  I’m saturated in darkness.
My dashboard glows faintly and the heat
struggles to pour from the old vents.  I’m kept
warm by my love.  I brake at a stop sign and
turn left past the little green farmhouse.  It’s
been months but the drive’s still muscle
memory.  Missed these nights where the
emptiness is palpable in the car.  The hollow
space envelops me like a blanket.  Holds me
like you did minutes earlier.  I swerve around
a run-down barn that protrudes onto the road.
Turn left again.  See that the neon sign of the
bar is still illuminated.  A warm orange
against the cold darkness.  Glimpse the way
the fiery droplets spill from the glowing beer
tankard.  Flickers like a candle but doesn’t go
out.
Sam Lawrence Jan 28
Curled around you
Wire around a gatepost
I squeeze slightly
And push a gentle note
From you lungs
Half sleeping hands
Twist knots from rippling fingers
In the night, from time,
Limbs once squashed, resurface
And buzz slightly
With the orange tranquillity
Of the lamppost outside your bedroom window
My dried kisses
The saliva of pavement slugs
Travelling across your shoulders
Your hair the brambles
That catch the side of my mouth
Sometimes needing a little puff to blow
To blow them on their way
I am with you listening to the darkness
Hills folded
An earwig bumbles wearily over your cheek
With such tiny, beautiful feet
Touching your every pore
The brow of your neck
Rests the dew
Beneath the tumbling dandelions
Tumbling seed
Breathe deeply
A sharp bracing
Toes that peep out
Under the bedclothes
With the yellow dawn

— The End —